by Tony Klinger
“No,” I answered honestly, feeling the familiar thrill of excitement at the possibility at intimacy with a new and exciting woman. “I think it would be wonderful for both of us.” She laughed throatily and as she did so tossed her head back, “You must have some Irish blood in you, you’re so full of the blarney,” she leaned in close, so only he could hear, “and I am the most awful tart, the answer is yes, but on one condition...”
Arnie nodded, “I haven’t told you what it is yet,” she said, “Almost anything.” I said.
Later that night I found myself in Jessica’s bedroom, she was semi nude on a bed, but instead of making love I was painting her. I was still fully clothed. My paintbrush was clamped between my teeth as my study of Jessica took shape on the canvas. The more I studied her the more I wanted her. I was making love to her with everything but my body and she luxuriated in this sensual knowledge, fully aware of her power over me.
“This is without doubt the next best thing to being touched by genius.” She teased me. I bent down to my easel and dropped the brush from my mouth, “I promise you the real thing is better, and you’ll shortly know that is no idle boast.” She smiled again and stretched like a big cat displaying her magnificent body fully; the woman was torturing me. “Get about your painting you naughty boy!” she said, “I’ve heard of singing for your supper but never before painting for a ...”
She hushed me with a finger to her lips and with her other hand she stuck the brush back into my mouth silencing me, “A deal’s a deal. I’m yours for one night when you finish the painting, which I get to keep forever and ever, remember?”
I recommenced the painting, and somehow my passion for this special woman grew with every brushstroke.
Eventually we both got what we wanted but I remain convinced that I got the better end of the deal. Although they say anticipation is nine tenths of the joy of making love on this occasion I don’t think they were right. Jessica was every man’s dream, a lady in the drawing room and a whore in the bedroom. She was clearly more experienced than me, and although that caused me to wonder where such wisdom might have been gained I soon lost that reservation when I felt the benefits of her carnal knowledge.
She was so giving and tactile, I experienced every inch of her and she me, I felt all her body, every undulating and pulsing part, she caressed me with her tongue, her mouth and her soft small hands. I used myself as well as I can, and her small noises grew in volume as our first kisses turned to open mouthed passion, our tongues exchanging more than words. I felt her tongue explore me and how I wished I could use my hands as cleverly as her hands tugged and stroked me.
Jessica felt comfortable with her own rhythms and soon she was dictating the pace for both of us to achieve ever more intense gratification. Without thought we became one being, sliding into one another, her breasts above my lips, swinging ever more temptingly to my lips, her openness pierced by me. Now she rode me like an accelerating horse, harder, faster, the pace increasing until we were totally lost in the rush to fulfillment and then, we were there, pumping everything into her, and her juices coating me, our perspiration mingling from this most wonderful coming together.
I slowly realized that I felt as if we had been in some extreme sporting event. Neither of us could quite catch our breath, the intensity, the passion between us just beginning to dissipate. “Better than a painting?” I asked, “You are the perfect lover.” She answered, “Really?” I said, genuinely surprised by this unexpected compliment. “Yes, do you know how sexy it is for a woman to control making love with a hunk like you?”
I thought about this for a moment or two, “Is that what its about, control?” I asked, “Yes, to a degree, control, speed.” she felt me under the sheet which we were both now under, “and endurance, you’re a bull of a man, a bloody lion, and every woman wants that in her bed whatever they might say to the contrary.”
She rolled on top of me and kissed me again, with growing passion. I couldn’t rid my face from its silly grin, “ and you’re a woman without shame or remorse.” And then we made love again. This time we were even slower and our build up more measured but no less exciting. I felt my heart beat to an accelerated pace as the woman played me as if I were her plaything. She was strong enough despite her willowy frame to move me as she wanted and she had no inhibitions in the bedroom. Afterwards I lay with my head on her bosom, her arms around me. “You use your mouth like other men use their hands, its wonderful.” I smiled, “Do you give written references?” I asked. She traced the features of my face with her hands, “No, you’re my secret and I’m keeping you all to myself. She must have felt my sudden discomfort as I turned my head away from her touch. I started to laugh and this broke the mood, at first she thought I was crying and she was concerned, “what is it, what’s wrong?” but soon realized it was laughter not tears. She was fairly outraged at the way I had broken the spell cast by our lovemaking, she whacked me on the shoulder, and “You’re mocking me!” I couldn’t stop myself laughing, “Tell me what’s so funny or I shall bash you with this.” She held the pillow above me.
“Who would have ever thought, Arnie Hessel, sex object, plaything of the world, Casanova, gigolo!” she bashed me on the face with the pillow, I began to laugh again, “You’re getting a bit above yourself young man. You love women and it shows, that’s nothing to get too excited about.”
But we were now both laughing, “Now show me my painting.” She jumped from the bed and rushed to the easel before I could say a word. She stopped as she looked at it, “You bastard, it’s wonderful and, its depraved.” I studied her as she regarded my painting of her, “If it’s wonderfully depraved then I have captured my subject, perfectly.”
She strode back toward me on the bed, her wonderful body reflecting the light coming in through the big picture windows, unaware and uncaring of anyone who might be peeking in. She stood by the bed looking down at me, “How did you know I wouldn’t just smash your depraved picture on your head, am I such an obvious tart?” Jessica was genuinely angry with me, her chest heaved as she crossed her arms and appraised me.
“Why do you say that?” I asked her, “Because I can never show that painting to anyone, let alone sell it.” It was my turn to smile again, “I never thought of that, and of course it was a present, and you being a lady would never think of selling a present. I never sell paintings to friends. I give friends my paintings. What even makes you believe you could sell it, what market is there for the works of Arnie Hessel, my only value on the market is as a freak, a curiosity, people don’t think I realize why they buy my paintings but I do, its just an update of going to the freak show at the circus and seeing the bearded lady or the midget for a little bit of money.” She got back into the bed and lay beside me above the sheets, “You’re being ridiculous, self pity really isn’t attractive.” I shook my head in reply, “My realism isn’t self pity. At college I used to think that I was as good or better than the rest, but since then some of my fellow graduates have already had exhibitions, made sales, been seriously reviewed while nothing has happened for me except the odd critic who deigns to say that my work is most unusual before passing on to some other, more mainstream artist.”
Her eyes narrowed as she studied me as if I were a particularly loathsome zoo exhibit. “You’re nowhere near so appealing when you’re like this.” She commented, “Like what?” I asked, not knowing enough to keep quiet, “Do you really want to know?” she asked, “Yes,” I replied, “Self pitying, winging, moaning and pathetic.”
I inwardly winced at her evaluation, “That’s unfair!” she was silent, “You sound like my mother.” She smiled and kissed me briefly, full on my mouth, “She must be a wise woman, but surely you’re not confusing the two of us I hope.” I kissed her back, “Never, she’s nowhere near as bossy as you!”
She tickled me on my belly, “that’s so cruel” I laughed, “We Scots have to take every advantage
we can, being only a small but bonny country, perhaps you need some authority in your life.” I found myself very pleasantly pinned by her chest resting on mine, “And you’re a bully, but I certainly don’t want anyone telling me what to do, and it doesn’t matter whether they’re right or wrong, I can make my own mistakes thank you.”
“Mister independent are we?” she inquired, “No, not really, without the support of my parents I would have starved on the streets long ago. I have no idea how I shall ever make a living.” Suddenly she sat bolt upright, “I could sell your paintings for you, I could be your international agent.”
“I don’t want to dampen your enthusiasm, but have you ever sold anything, do you know about selling?” But she was already getting up and moving purposefully into the bathroom where I soon heard running water. “Come on!” she called, “It’s time to get going, all we have to do is find someone with money who is as greedy for your depraved paintings as I am for your body and their money!”
My memory of events is that almost instantly Jessica had appointed herself my official international agent. Cards were printed and a sales campaign, more like her personal crusade commenced. As I watched her prepare I thought it would take a brave or foolhardy soul to deny her anything.
Jessica arrived at the first gallery with her hopes sky high. She checked her appearance in the glass front of the building and adjusted herself minutely, although there wasn’t a hair out of place, she looked wonderful, fresh and although trying to conceal it, nervous. But it was as if she had some contagious disease, within less than a minute she exited the gallery, less happy but still determined.
Despite my wishing for success I was still certain that this would turn out to be just another disappointment. If I had known the crushing rejections Jessica suffered my worst fears would have been confirmed and I would have insisted she stopped. I spent the day pacing around my Spartan room as she was ejected from all the galleries of our town.
After a day of universal rejection Jessica was pleased to finally meet one gallery proprietor who was more sympathetic. He nodded a great deal as he examined my canvases. “How many complete canvases did you say are initially available?” he inquired, Jessica was suddenly excited by this turn in our fortune.
“Fifteen presently, and given a little time perhaps nineteen or twenty, why, are you interested in an exhibition of Arnie’s works?” He looked very closely at one of the paintings before responding, “This artiste, Arnulf Hessel, has he never exhibited previously? His name strikes a chord, but I can’t quite place the name.” Jessica shook her head; “This would be his professional debut sir, anything to now have purely been steps on the path leading to your door, if you were to launch him you would forever be remembered as the father of a great career.”
The Proprietor now studied Jessica with the same intensity as he had previously shown with the paintings, “Are you involved personally with Herr Hessel?” Jessica found the new direction this conversation was taking a little uncomfortable, “Why do you ask?” he smiled but his meaning was clear to the young woman especially as he moved closer and rubbed her hands with his own, “Oh I think you’re a big girl, you understand, we scratch each other’s backs, no one needs know, except the two of us. It wouldn’t be so bad and your friend would be launched. We could rub each other up the right way”
Jessica looked up at the big man as he leaned forward to nuzzle her ear and as he attempts to do so she kicked him hard in the nether regions. He howled in pain and hopped from foot to foot whilst holding himself. Jessica gathered up the canvases and the rest of her stuff and made for the door where she stopped and turned; “Now you could say you can rub that the wrong way, bye.” She called as she left the gallery.
I laughed with Jessica when she told me the stories and adventures from these first, totally unsuccessful days but it didn’t make us any less disappointed at the totally barren outcome. We sat at my kitchen table surveying our bare existence and lack of future promise. I must have shaken my head for the thousandth time, and Jessica exploded, “Will you stop shaking that head of yours, its not the end of the world, we haven’t begun to fight yet.” She swigged from the bottle of red wine we were sharing, “I told you exactly what would happen didn’t I.” “You give in too easily.” She responded with her usual defiance and speed, “I’m a realist.” `I said, “You’re a bloody pessimist.” Jessica insisted, and just then, to save the day the door burst open. In strode our great friend Helmut. I jumped up to greet him and he grabbed me in one of his usual huge bear hugs.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming you old fool?” he grinned, and turning to Jessica continued her sentence, “he is worse than that, he is a bloody minded, obstinate pessimistic fool!”
He kissed both Jessica and me despite not knowing her previously. He gazed at her appreciatively, “Well introduce me you cad!” “Of course, this is Jessica, a beloved flower of the finest English womanhood Jessica this is Attila the Hun, keep your legs crossed at all times in his presence.”
Helmut and Jessica both laughed before she jumped into the conversation, “By the way Helmut I am most definitely not English, I am Scottish.” Helmut laughed again, “Of course you are dear lady, of course you are. So, why are you two looking so glum? You didn’t see me arriving through the window by any chance?”
“Jessica is learning the hard way how difficult it is to live by art alone. She has had a very difficult time I’m afraid.” Before Helmut could respond to my description Jessica spoke, “I can speak for myself you know.” “Of course” I said, “so how would you describe your experiences?”
“Bloody awful which is why Helmut needs to pour us all another drink, and make mine a double.” Helmut did as he was asked, he was always keen to have a drink himself and it didn’t matter the circumstances, venue or time. “Fancy your allowing this fragile flower of Caledonia out on to those cold Teutonic streets whilst you sat here on your fat ass in this warm studio, shame on Arnulf Hessel.”
Helmut snorted in disapproval, I smiled at Jessica and shook my head, “You’re to take no notice of this very silly man, he loves me really.” “Not when you’re stupid I don’t. I have told you what to do many times and you just don’t listen. You prefer to suffer you idiot!”
I was so fed up with this speech that I found myself shaking my head yet again, “Not your mad scheme again, Lord preserve us all.” Jessica cut in, “I’m interested, what mad scheme is this?” Helmut smiled again, and turning from me was about to address himself directly to Jessica but I interrupted him, “It’s not an idea as much as it’s a trick, almost a con trick.”
Helmut spoke to Jessica, “Shame on you Arnie, it is strictly legal and proper, now shall I put the lady out of her misery or will you?” I sat down again, knowing that no power on earth would shut my friend up, but at least I could make my feelings known, “You explain your strange idea, you’re so much more suited to explaining criminal concepts larceny being so close to the heart of all aristocrats.”
Helmut was not particularly amused as he resumed his explanation, “Well, as is well known, unless an artiste is safely dead in today’s Germany his art has no sales value whatsoever, in other words you have to be dead to have a future.”
“My word,” said Jessica, “we kill Arnie and then we market him, wonderful!” she giggled, “Very droll.” I said, “Droll or not, it happens to be nearer the truth than we would all like to admit, no one in Germany has spare cash to buy art unless it’s a certain investment with good returns, most folk need every penny just to make sure they eat, but what if there was a way to make excellent art available to everyone for a few coppers and at the same time make the buyer feel good, what would you say then?”
It all sounded so plausible when Helmut outlined his dubious plans, “This sounds very interesting,” said Jessica, “Carry on.”
It was less than a week later that my garret had been converte
d into a small print works, complete with a press, inks and every variety of the finest card available. The machine was antiquated but, with the combined efforts of Jessica, who turned out to be a hidden engineer via her father’s wise upbringing, and Helmut for the muscle, it worked. The team was turning out reasonable facsimiles of my best paintings in postcard size.
Helmut held up several to the light pouring in via the window, and rifled through them, grunting in satisfaction. “Not so stupid now eh. Postcards of the works of our pet genius, on the other side our little message explaining who and what Arnie Hessel is, and we never ever claim this is a charity, but neither do we say we are not a charity. We send these cards out in packets to every house in every street at Christmas or other holidays. If the people receiving our cards as a gift decide they wish to reciprocate by sending us a little something, perhaps some money, it would be churlish to refuse. If they wish to throw them away or use them for free then I shall lose the money I am willing to invest to launch this concept. I have every faith that the average German family will do the right and honorable thing and make us all immeasurably rich!”
“And I say again, for the umpteenth time, that is a shabby and shameful way to get rich, that is if it were to ever work.”
Helmut became serious, which was happily quite rare, “You once told me that I would have to learn the new order’s rules in order to have a chance of survival and their first rule is that the strong shall devour the weak. You will be very weak indeed my friend, a half Jewish penniless artistic cripple. Don’t you see this could be your ticket for survival? Rich men make their own rules, they are much harder to push around, whatever the rules are supposed to be, even the Nazis will know that.”
“Listen to him Arnie,” said Jessica, “he knows what he’s talking about.”